Scene 11:

Elric sat in his study, the dim light from the tall windows casting sharp shadows across the room. His fingers tapped idly on the armrest of the chair, the faint ticking of the clock being the only other sound. He had been waiting all afternoon, his patience thin but his composure unbroken.

The door creaked open, and a man in dark, travel-stained clothes stepped inside. It was one of the Khilvish mercenaries. Dust clung to his boots, and his breathing was still uneven from the journey. He bowed slightly before speaking.

“It’s done, my lord,” the mercenary said in a low, almost hoarse voice. “We threw the boulder as planned. The carriage broke apart… Lord Tharald was badly injured.”

Elric’s lips curved into the faintest smile, though his eyes remained cold. “And the others?”

“They believe it was an accident. The knights took him to the nearest hospital. He won’t be moving anytime soon.”

“Good,” Elric replied, his tone calm, as though discussing the weather. He leaned back in his chair, the faint scent of ink and parchment in the air. “You may go. And remember—speak of this to no one.”

The mercenary nodded and slipped out silently.

Scene 12:

The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air as Lord Tharald was wheeled into his chamber, pale and unconscious after the operation. His breathing was shallow, his bandaged chest rising and falling in strained rhythm. Outside, the sun was dipping behind the horizon, throwing the room into a soft orange glow that did nothing to warm the tense atmosphere inside.

Serelith had just finished her Etiquette class when she heard the news. Her heart skipped a beat, and without a second thought, she gathered her skirts and ran through the marble corridors. Her shoes echoed against the floor as she reached her grandfather’s room.

The door was half-open. Inside, Marlena was seated by the bed, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Beside her, Celene clung to the old man’s arm, pleading in a high-pitched, tearful voice, “Grandpa, wake up, please… wake up.”

Elric stood near the window, his face cast in shadow. His expression seemed gloomy—brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line—but something about it didn’t feel right. Serelith, panting from her run, stepped inside quietly.

It was then she noticed. Marlena’s sobs held no rawness, no trembling pain—just the right amount of sound to seem convincing. Celene’s cries were louder than necessary, the kind of fuss that felt almost rehearsed. And Elric… in the split second when no one was looking, she caught it—a faint curve of his lips, the ghost of a smile.

It chilled her.

In that moment, the pieces fell into place in her young mind. He was behind this. Her grandfather’s “accident” was no accident at all.

Serelith’s throat tightened, but she said nothing. Her small fingers curled into fists at her side. At her age, she should have been in the gardens playing with friends, learning new songs from the maids, and falling asleep to comforting stories. Instead, she was standing in a room drenched in lies, watching people she should trust weave schemes around her.

Her eyes darted back to Elric. The gloom on his face returned instantly when he noticed her gaze, as if the smile had never been there. But she knew what she saw.

And once seen, it could never be unseen.

The next morning, faint sunlight filtered through the curtains as Lord Tharald’s eyes slowly fluttered open. The dull ache in his head reminded him of the incident, but before he could gather his thoughts, the door creaked open.

Serelith entered quietly, clutching a bunch of freshly picked flowers, their scent trailing behind her. “Grandpa,” she said softly, her voice almost trembling, “you’re awake!”

Shyamu followed, his usual grin tempered with relief. “We brought these from the garden. Thought you might like them.”

Tharald smiled faintly, taking the flowers into his hands. “They’re beautiful… just like the two of you,” he murmured.

For a while, they talked lightly—about the garden, the weather, even Shyamu’s clumsy attempt at climbing a tree to get the prettiest flowers. Laughter filled the room, easing the tension.

But then, the air shifted. Serelith’s eyes met Shyamu’s, a silent conversation passing between them. He raised an eyebrow, and she bit her lip.

“Should we… tell him?” Shyamu whispered, barely audible.

Tharald glanced between them. “Tell me what?”

Serelith hesitated, fingers tightening around the bouquet. “It’s… about the accident,” she said slowly, her eyes searching his face.

Serelith sat on the edge of her grandfather’s bed, twisting the hem of her dress between her fingers. Her voice trembled as she began, “Grandpa… I saw everything. They were faking their tears. Marlena, Celene… even Father. I clearly saw it. I… I think Father might have orchestrated your accident.” She hesitated, glancing down. “Or… maybe it’s just my assumption.”

Before Tharald could respond, Shyamu, who had been quietly standing by the window, stepped forward. “It’s not an assumption,” he said firmly. “I saw mercenary soldiers heading toward your father’s study the night before it happened.”

Serelith blinked. “Mercenary? What’s that?”

Shyamu explained patiently, “They’re soldiers who fight for money, not loyalty. They’ll work for anyone who pays them enough. One of my relatives works in a mercenary group—he recognized some of them.”

Tharald’s tired eyes grew sharper, though his voice was weak. “I should not say this, child… not when the man is your father. But truth cannot be hidden forever.” He paused, breathing heavily. “Serelith, I don’t have much time. My body… it might fail me at any moment.”

“Don’t say that!” Serelith burst out, her hands gripping his. “You’re going to get better—”

“No.” Tharald’s voice was soft but resolute. “If fate decides otherwise, you must promise me one thing.” His gaze locked on hers, steady despite the pain. “Live happily. Don’t let their schemes poison your heart. You’re young—you should be laughing, playing, learning… not carrying the weight of their sins.”

Serelith’s eyes burned, tears spilling freely now. “But… if you’re not here—”

“I’ll always be here,” Tharald interrupted gently, placing a frail hand over her chest. “Right here.”

Shyamu swallowed hard, looking away to hide the redness in his eyes. But when Serelith suddenly leaned forward and hugged Tharald tightly, Shyamu followed, wrapping his arms around them both.

For a moment, the room was filled with the quiet sound of their muffled sobs. Tharald’s breathing was uneven, but he still managed to hold them, his trembling hands resting on their backs.

“Don’t cry too much,” he whispered. “Tears… should be saved for joy too.”

But neither of them let go. They stayed like that, clinging to the warmth they feared they might lose, the truth unspoken yet painfully understood.